


Your City Gave Me Asthma (That's Why I'll Never Leave)

by karmicpunishment



Series: IRL Fic [5]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Asthma, Asthma Attacks, Choking, Chronic Illness, Coughing, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Illnesses, Panic Attacks, Real Life, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot-centric, Wilbur has asthma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29743320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmicpunishment/pseuds/karmicpunishment
Summary: 4 times Wilbur suffered from an asthma attack +1 time he breathed easyori heavily project onto mr.soot <3
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: IRL Fic [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168364
Comments: 22
Kudos: 248





	Your City Gave Me Asthma (That's Why I'll Never Leave)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diapason](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diapason/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Ilex!!! i hope you enjoy this haha, its not quite the happiest birthday gift but i think you'll like it :-)

Wilbur was never really fond of the saying “took my breath away”. As someone who had struggled to breathe all his life, who knew how it feels to have your breath stolen out of your lungs and to be unsure if you’d be able to draw a next one, it felt silly to use it that way. To romanticize the horrible feeling, to make it seem sweet or romantic or fun. It wasn’t. To gasp for air, to reach for something out of your grasp, to struggle and suffer and blink away black spots as your vision fades and you still can’t _fucking breathe_? It wasn’t romantic or fun. It was awful and painful. So yeah, excuse him if he was never quite fond of that phrase. He was sure anyone with the same experience would agree. 

Losing your breath was never fun. Unfortunately for Wilbur, it was a common occurrence. He’d been struggling for breaths as long as he could remember. The word for his condition is like a heavy weight around his neck (or maybe a blockage in his lungs). _Asthma._ Common enough. Easy enough to treat. 

Doesn’t mean it wasn’t a pain in the ass to deal with. Doesn’t mean waking up for the first time unable to breath wasn’t terrifying. Doesn’t mean stumbling through gym classes and wheezing through hikes wasn’t humiliating. Doesn’t mean the hum of the machine and the tremors in his hands after treatments weren’t stifling and uncomfortable and just all around awful. Doesn’t mean the taste of albuterol didn’t coat his tongue for eternity. Doesn’t mean it didn’t make his life harder.

Asthma was a bother, an annoyance, a fucking thorn in his side, but at least it was a familiar one. A constant companion in his life, the weight in his lungs a familiar stranger everyday. A hindrance but a common one. A plague but one he can live with. A sword over his head but one held back by a steady string. Better the devil you know, as they say. 

# \-----------------------

Wilbur nearly dies alone when he’s 22 years old. Sitting on his lumpy bed, in his tiny room, in his shitty flat in _fucking Brighton._ Curled up on his bed trying and failing to breathe, chest refusing to do more than falter and stutter with each aborted gasp and choked inhale. Guitar pick cutting into his palm as he gripped it with a fervor ebbing away as his vision began to wade in and out, black dots prickling across his gaze. It’d been awhile since his last attack and foolishly he’d thought maybe, just maybe, he’d grown out of it. But as it tended to do, life reared its ugly head and decided to dump him headfirst into the deep end instead of granting him a boon or reprieve. He couldn’t have one thing could he? Not a brain without endless fog or a body without dozens of pitfalls or lungs that could breathe without seizing. Tears were drip, drip, dripping down his cheeks and into his mouth, the salt a shock to his cracked lips and gaping mouth. He could almost pretend he was drowning instead, that he was overtaken by the tides and the rough winds instead of his own broken lungs. That he would die to a force of nature, or his own stupid pride, and not life's big “fuck you” it’d given him at birth.   
  
His chest was spasming, in and out in jerky movements that mimicked the function he was failing to do, timed perfectly with the pounding in his head. He just wanted to work on some music, to strum his guitar and forget some of his troubles. Instead he’s stuck in his room, endless oxygen around him and none in his lungs, music waiting on his fingers but voice gone with the wind. He couldn’t have one thing could he? Not one good night, not one calm day, not one breathing cycle in peace. Instead he got rattling lungs and shaky hands and thoughts that felt like nails in his brain. His inhaler was somewhere in his room, lost in the tides of chaos, in the huge mess he’d left behind. The one he’d pledge to clean up, but not _today,_ he’d do it _later_ (later never came). He could never make himself do much of anything these days. His eyes had searched, when the attack was still creeping up on him, around his room looking for that bright red piece of plastic that could clear his lungs and calm his rattling frame, but to no avail. He couldn’t find it and so here he was, trying to breathe, failing to breathe, and crying alone in his room. All he can do now is wait and breathe. Wait and breathe. It’d be over soon. Soon he’d be able to breathe again, lungs functional (at least until the next one). All he had to do was wait. 

# \-----------------------

The winter was always the worst time of year for Wilbur. Dreary weather (not that the weather was ever good here), gray skies (not that he really saw the sun much), and worst of all, the shocking chill. He would like the cold, honestly, with the shivers that racked his frame grounding him to Earth and the falling snow in the sky clearing his mind as it melted on his skin, if it weren’t for his fucked body. The cold air was a shock to his lungs, a common nuisance that brought sharp pains and a tightening in his chest. Everytime he stepped outside in the Winter, his breathing would stutter as the cold air weaved its way into his lungs. Most times it was dealable, but sometimes it was enough to spur him into a coughing fit, or worst case, an attack. Earlier today it was only uncomfortable, only feeling like pins and needles in his lungs instead of the daggers it could be, and he was grateful. Today was important after all. 

He was doing a meetup with some of his friends today, and they’d promised no filming (at least until later for a planned video). There would be no Tommy with a vlog camera in their faces this time. Though none of them had really minded last time, they would put up with a dozen cameras in their faces for that kids smile. Phil was driving down with Kristen, Niki and Rhianna coming together from their apartment, David joining from their shared place and Tommy coming from Nottingham, this time without his father, allowed after the success of last time. His father had messaged him privately, asking him to look out for Tommy and he swore he would. Not that he even needed to be asked, really. Tommy was a smart kid, brilliant and funny and charismatic but still a kid, and one Wilbur cares about, so of course he’d look after him. They were heading to the Lanes, for some shopping and lunch. Of course most of the fun came from just walking around, looking in the bright windows and running into stores to escape the chill once their cheeks got red and shivers got strong enough to shake their frames. 

The last time he’d been to the Lanes was a couple years ago, the members of Soothouse going out for some fun day during the summer. It was nice, an afternoon bleeding into evening full of laughter and meaningless bickering. He couldn’t recall a single shop they’d stopped at, or a single item he’d bought, but the smile etched in his own face mirrored in his friends was a memory he hoped would never fade. A smile, softer than the one in his memory, grew on his face at the thought. It wouldn’t be the same today, the group different, himself changed and the world even more so, but hopefully it would become just as bright a memory. A buzz in his pocket shocked him out of his reminiscing, a text from Phil on his screen, asking him if he was running late. A glance at the time confirmed his fear. Fuck. He was running late. Normally he wouldn’t care so much, anxiety warring with apathy, but today was a special day. He didn’t want to make the others wait for him. A glance at the street sign gave him some good news at least. He was only a few blocks away, if he hurried his pace he’d make if in no time at all. Sure, it would be more exercise than he’d prefer but better than leaving his friends waiting outside in the cold. He cursed himself once more for not leaving earlier with David, instead focusing on jotting down the lyrics that had popped into his head earlier that morning and then the cords that had followed along, until he was in a music spiral and utterly lost track of time. 

Muttering a few more curses under his breath for luck, he took off down the street, not quite a run but not a jog either, just an awkward pace far faster than a normal pedestrian. Luckily it seemed there weren’t too many people in the streets at the time, and those who were seemed content with avoiding the running 6’4 man heading down the sidewalk. The streets bled past as he hurried along his way, the gray landscape a blur to his windstruck eyes. The only thing he could hear was the whistling wind and his own ragged breaths. Fuck. His chest was getting tighter, breaths coming harder the longer he ran. He skidded to a stop, ducking half way into an ally, just a corner away from the Lanes. He’d have cheered if it suddenly didn’t feel like an impossible task to breathe. He shoved off his shoulder back and sunk to his knees, ignoring the filth and germs that had to be covering him now, instead pushing through his bag, looking for something in particular. Shoving aside his wallet and keys and all the other stupid shit he’d brought along until- there!. A bright red plastic inhaler beamed up at him like a lighthouse to a lost ship. He grabbed it and shook it, trying to ignore the shaking in his hands as he did. 

Then in a set of motions done near mechanically in their precision, he popped off the inhaler cap and puffed it into his mouth. Once, then a breath. Another puff, another breathe. He spent a few moments kneeling there in the muck and grime, just relishing in his ability to breathe. So easily taken for granted. An unconscious thing until it's ripped away from you. He slipped his inhaler back into his back and stood up on shaking legs. There was a reason he rarely ran, and this was a painful reminder of it. Still, the cause behind his decision hadn’t gone away, in fact they were just around the corner. Time wasn’t slowing down or ticking backwards and he shouldn’t keep them waiting. Turning the corner into the other world of the lively Lanes, he spotted his friends almost immediately, especially with Niki’s bright pink hair. Letting out a shout, their heads turned to him almost as one. And as he strolled over, an easy smile slapped over the earlier panic, he waved as he approached, open and free. He immediately pulled Tommy into a headlock, letting the kids squawks and loud swears hopefully distract from his own shaking hands and dirty knees. It was over after all. No need to put a damper on a happy day for the rest of them. And if his lungs still wheezed for the rest of the day and he coughed more than usual and his knees ached for the next hours from his kneeling on the concrete, well that was his own burden to bear. 

# \-----------------------

Whatever deity he’s scorned in a past life (not that he believed in either of those things) to put him in this position now must be laughing their ass off. Racing against a child, and Tommyinnit at that, and losing. The kid had pulled ahead, cheeks flushed red from the exertion, his cheeks pulled wide in the most shit-eating grin Wilbur had ever seen. He cursed under his breath, as he pumped his legs a bit harder. He wished he wasn’t so easy to goad like Techno, or at least better at deflecting like Phil. It should have been easy, his legs longer than Tommy’s own, but life rarely was easy, even with something as simple as a race over a field. Well Tommy didn’t grow up in a city with smog heavily laying over every inch, just hoping to creep into your lungs. And Tommy didn’t have already shitty lungs, at least to his knowledge. It seemed like at the reminder of this official Shit status his lungs decided to make their presence known. His chest tightened and he could feel himself slow as his breaths got shorter and shorter. His pace faltered, and he fell behind Tommy even more. He could feel Techno and Phils gazes on his back, from the end of the field they’d taken off from, choosing to walk instead of sprint with the two. He was wishing he made the same choice right now.

He stumbled to a stop as the first cough tore its way out of his chest. The sound, audibly rough and painful, seemed to echo across the field, drawing everyone's attention. Even Tommy. The kid skid to a stop, dirt flying at his abrupt stop as he whipped around to look at him. He could hear a concerned noise from behind him, but couldn’t make out who. All he could focus on were the harsh coughs making there was through his chest, throat and mouth. Sharp and painful, tears were prickling at his eyes and he could feel himself swaying. From the corner of his blurry vision he could see Tommy's blond head approaching, words bubbling out of his mouth, loud and emotive, but none of them reaching his ears. All he could do was focus on coughing and not just dropping like a stone to the ground. He sank to the ground as slow as he could, hand fumbling for his bag, for his red plastic saving grace enclosed inside. Tears were streaming now and he didn’t care. His lungs were burning and the coughs wouldn't stop and _he couldn’t breathe and he was going to die and-_

A hand, warm and steady gripped his shoulder, and another grasped his bad, the sound of a zipper cutting through the static. Phil's face swam in front of his eyes, concern etched in every inch of his face, Techno opening his bag and rifling through it. He could see Tommy hovering at the edge of his sight, the poor kid trembling. If he wasn’t dying, he’d comfort him. Either way, the fear on his face would be with him for a while longer. The tears in his eyes were from more than the force his coughs in that moment. 

A flash of red drew his attention. Techno held his inhaler in his hand. He would have sighed in relief if he could (but he couldn't, that was the whole damn problem). He stretched out his arm towards Techno, making a “gimme” motion with his hand. The cool plastic hitting his open palm, nearly dropping from the shaking racking his frame. A warm hand closed his fingers around the plastic for him, the cover already removed, and guided his hand up to his mouth. His other hand came down from his mouth and pulled the inhaler to his lips. Puff, try to inhale in. He couldn’t. All he could do was cough and cough. But there was a hand rubbing his back and someone holding his hand. So he took a breath in the best he could and puffed again. Exhaled and coughed and coughed and coughed until he didn’t have to anymore. Fatigue nestled in his bones as he wheezed, air snaking into his lungs at long last. He lent against the person behind him, solid and warm, and relaxed. He could see Tommy and Techno in front of him now, tears stopped, both wearing terrified expressions ebbing away to relief as they heard his breath come easier. The person he was leaning against (Phil? It had to be) put an arm around him, a nice hug, if a bit weirdly positioned from where they were sat. Wilbur couldn’t help but melt into the hug further, he couldn’t recall the last hug he had, and he felt too fragile to push away now. A blond blur moved in his vision and another warm body hit him, nearly forcing the near found air right out of his lungs. Another pair of arms latched around his middle, Tommy burying his head into his chest. The kid was muttering, words muffled by the fabric, but some still audible. Something about “never doing that again'' and him being a “massive prick” and if he “wanted to win the race so badly he could have just said so”. A chuckle, more wheeze than a laugh to be honest, echoed from his throat and he brought his hand up to rub Tommy's back, an almost unconscious mimic of what Phil had done minutes earlier. In another mirror of an earlier moment he held out his hand to Techno. Techno hesitated before placing his hand in Wilbur’s, only to find himself pulled into the newly established group hug with a strength surprising for a man who almost just passed out from an asthma attack. 

The four of them sat there in the hug for a while. The grass was tickling their skin and the sun was beating down but none of them cared. Right now, sitting here all together, was enough.

# \-----------------------

Wilbur hated getting sick. Abhorred it, despised it, loathed it, detested it, and all the other thousand words in English and any other languages he could think of to share that sentiment. He truly just hated it. Hated the stuffy noses. Hated the foggy head and tired eyes. Hated the aching bones and unsettled stomach. The thing he hated most of all though? The coughing. Whenever he got sick, be it a minor cold or the flu, whatever it was would settle in his lungs and stick there. Weeks after the rest of the symptoms had been chased away the tightness in his lungs would linger, his breath fleeting and lungs aching. Trips down stairs would turn into coughing fits, cackling at Tommy’s jokes turned into Dream level wheezes. He hated it. (If he was Charlie, he might have said he was _sick_ of it). 

It was easy to forget, after it faded, the last lingering vestiges of sick fleeing, how awful it was. But it always came back to remind him, that sucker punch in the gut from nature. 

He was glad the rest of the Sleepy Boi’s knew now about his asthma. Of course they’d found out in the worst way possible (he remembers coughing and spluttering in the field, scared but not alone), but oh well, he can’t change that now. At least now, as he wheezed with every breath, he didn’t have to make some bullshit excuse to not film a video, or have to struggle to get to the mute button before he coughed on a call so he could try to pretend he didn’t, that he was breathing fine. (He still muted when he could anyway, but that was just to be polite. No one wants to listen to someone cough over discord) 

They were set to record a video later this afternoon, some modded video for Tommy’s channel. A video sure to be full of bits and gags and laughter, normally something Wilbur would look forward to, one of the highlights of his week, but a bit of dread was pooling in his stomach at the thought. His chest felt tight, his lungs rebelling and his system failing. The thought of laughing and joking with the others, an idea so sweet, was tainted with the creeping memory of coughing/choking/crying/dying in that field. He could barely laugh right now without a cough creeping in. He’d chuckled at a video Tommy had sent him earlier in the morning and shot himself into a three minute long coughing fit, sat in between crumbled blankets as tears pricked at his still sleep crusted eyes from the force. It hadn’t spiraled into a full blown asthma attack but it still hurt, birdsong creeping in the window in the early morning drowned out by gasps and hacking. 

He didn’t want to experience that again. Or at least not today. It would be foolish to think he could escape it forever, not while his lungs were like this, not while there was a chill mingling with the smog in the air, not when his body clung to the remnants of sickness. 

He wanted to film the video, to laugh with his friends turned something closer to family, to make dumb jokes and play with silly voice modulators and stupid minecraft mods. He wanted to give Tommy good content and good memories all in one, not a subpar video with a subdued Wilbur and plenty of work editing out hacking coughs for Editor Larry, which he knew is what would happen if he tried, if he showed up the recording session. 

What could he do? Tell the truth and garner heavy disappointment and cloying sympathy? Lie, make up some excuse and swallow back the acidic guilt that he knew would pour over him, heavier than ever? Show up to the recording, a drain on the energy and laughter with every cough and splutter?

Every option turned his stomach. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say, what message to send. The twisting of his stomach rose towards his chest, stomach hollow with anxiety as his chest tightened. His breaths were coming quicker, thin and reedy as panic flooded his system. He tried to take stock of his body. Shaking hands. Tight chest. Sweat building on clammy skin. Throat closed off, its path thick with panic as thin air forced itself in and out, faster and faster. The cool glass screen of his phone felt slick against his shaking palm, his other hand coming up to tug at his hair, light at first, but harsher and harsher as the panic persisted, shocks of pain between each ragged breath. His panic grew and grew as his chest grew tighter, air a fleeting commodity as a cosmic joke was being played. His one wish for the day, to breathe easy for the rest of it, so easily thrown away as he succumbed to his own heavy panic. 

He sat there, rocking and tugging and tearing up, trying and failing to breathe through the panic, before it finally ended. As exhaustion darkened the corners of his vision, sleep pulling him back in, even as he lay sprawled on top of his covers, he could feel the buzzing of his phone, still held tight in his tired hand. No doubt Tommy or Phil reaching out as time crawled on towards the recording time. He ignored them, letting his phone slide out of his hand. Figures he’d disappoint them again. His chest rattled as he breathed in. He couldn’t muster up the energy to care.

\-----------------

For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, joy was the only thing pulling in Wilbur’s chest. Laughter bubbling up instead of anxiety, smiles the only things pulling at his mouth, no coughs breaking through. The air was clear. His lungs were working. He wasn’t “healed” or “fixed”. He was still broken in many ways, like everyone was, but for now a brief reprieve. No sickness in his blood, the fatigue on his bones light and manageable with a nice sleep, and well worth its cause. Best of all, no wheezing, no tight chest, no hacking coughs.

He was sat in a call with nearly all his friends, their streams all having been long ended, all cameras turned off to the general public eye, only now seen to the other blurry faces on his screen. The sky had long gone dark outside his fogged up window, for some of the others it was afternoon or early morning as they were spread all over the world, but none of them cared. They would proudly bare the bags under their eyes in exchange for the warmth they were feeling right now as they laughed and fooled around from behind computer screens. They had done some lore on the Dream SMP earlier, something loud and properly dramatic and plenty fueling for their fans fire. Now they were just sitting together, spread out around varying countries and cities, but feeling closer together than ever. People were drifting off left and right, speeches falling away to tired mumbling and nearly delirious laughter. The volume was dying down as the stars twinkled to life outside, and Wilbur smiled. He sighed and laughed and breathed free, for the first time in a long time. And it was nice.

**Author's Note:**

> this took me like a month to finish, thank you to ilex for motivating me to finish by being so cool i just had to write them a birthday gift
> 
> anyway this fic was like 40% projection, 50% craving wilbur angst and 10% comfort 
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed! if you did, please kudos and comment, it makes my day 
> 
> and if you want to scream at me or with me about this fic (and future ones) join the writers block discord!:  
> https://discord.gg/w9CwSK26mm


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